Ave Maria
by Katelyn0Marie
Summary: So, this is a songific to Beyonce's Ave Maria. Mystrade/Johnlock. Rated T for slight themes.


_**He was lost in so many different ways...**_

And he was. God, was he. Sherlock knew that he was lost, he knew that he was fifty shades of screwed up.

That was why he shot up; it was the only way he could forget how lost he was- by getting a bit more lost in his high.

Every time Sherlock grabbed a needle, he knew what he was doing.

And Lord, did he wish he could do something else.

_**Out in the darkness with no guide...**_

Lestrade had been DI for quite a bit of time; he had a large paycheck, a nice comfortable home...and no one to share it with.

Ever since Linda had divorced him, he no longer cared what happened. Nothing was his division, nothing got through to him.

Gregory Lestrade felt as if he had been left out in the street, in the blackest black of night, alone.

Not _too far from the truth of the situation_...

_**Never thought the grace of God go high...**_

Sherlock Holmes woke up every morning and went to bed every night with the same thought on his mind: _John_.

_John _was the one who had truly saved him; _John _ was his guardian angel.

Sherlock loved him, with all of his heart. It was a strange, encroaching feeling, this love.

Sherlock's heart tightened whenever John was near- from a strictly biological viewpoint, it would have been painfully obvious that Sherlock loved John.

But John _saw_, and did not _observe_.

I _**found heaven on Earth; you are my last, my first...**_

John had never taken an interest in blokes, but William Sherlock Scott Holmes was _certainly _not a bloke.

Sherlock was a genius, a marvel; calling Sherlock a bloke was like calling the Lourve a museum.

John loved Sherlock; Sherlock loved John.

It was only a matter of time until they connected in the most viable way.

They had been drunk- shit faced, actually- and John had been using Sherlock's shoulder as a support. Sherlock had, of course, misinterpreted John's intentions and leaned in, sealing his lips with John's. There was no warning; no way to back out.

And John wouldn't have had it any other way. If he were going to kiss a genius, he wanted to kiss _this _genius, in particularly _this _way.

_**I've been alone when I'm surrounded by friends; how could the silence be so loud... **_

Mycroft Holmes was certainly not a _people _person, but he enjoyed the company of individuals that sought the same interests as he.

And sitting in the insufferably stuffy Diogenes club with a bunch of rich pricks who looked down upon his little brother and the few associates he could tolerate, he was certainly _not _in the right place.

Mycroft collected his belongings and left the club, pondering why it was that he could never fit in anyplace.

_**There's only us when the lights go down...**_

John smirked into the kiss, Sherlock's tongue exploring his own.

It had been two magical days since Sherlock had kissed John and John hadn't stopped him; since then the two remained touching in some form.

John absently trailed his fingers across the delicious bump of Sherlock's arse; he was never more grateful to have a darkened room as right now.

_**You are my hunger, my thirst.. **_

Mycroft had noticed Gregory Lestrade's recent weight loss- it didn't suit him.

Extending what he thought any decent human being would, Mycroft invited Lestrade to dinner.

Mycroft smiled as Lestrade shyly nodded, reflecting on how charming the man looked, even disheveled and a bit thin.

_In fact_, noted the elder Holmes, _he looks as if he's been deep in a bottle. _

For some reason, this disturbed Mycroft.

"Perhaps," muttered Mycroft. "Perhaps he needs that dinner tonight."

_**Sometimes love can come and pass you by while you're busy making plans...**_

Lestrade couldn't remember how long it had been since he'd eaten such a fine homemade meal- and by Mycroft at that. Nor could he remembered when a single human being had made him feel half as comfortable and- dare he think- _wanted _as Mycroft Holmes just had.

As Lestrade got up to leave, Mycroft hugged the man, a display of affection that caught both men off guard.

But what put Mycroft off further was the way that Greg's lips looked still covered with the oil from his salmon and the smell of slightly digested wine on his breath.

And before either could stop it, they were falling off a cliff that neither knew how to scale.

_**It's out of your hands, baby you've got to understand...**_

Sherlock looked over at the way that John's hair seemed to catch each ray of morning sunshine and throw it back at the window.

_Just as defiant as the man himself_, Sherlock mused.

Sherlock realized that he could never love anyone quite as much as he loved John.

He knew that deep inside, John loved him just as much, which only made Sherlock love him the moreso.

Peppering kisses on his lover's face, Sherlock welcomed John to a new day, and a new pattern in the fabric of their love- today was the day that Sherlock was to marry the man who had shown him how to love himself, and in the process had procured love in Sherlock's heart.

_**And then I hear this voice inside... **_

Lestrade stood over the pale naked man, his heart in his toes.

This was _not _the man that he loved; this could not be the man who, only _last night_, kissed him and promised to be back the next morning.

Not _dead_.

Lestrade covered Mycroft's body with his jacket- he would give his husband the dignity his murderers denied him.

Lestrade kissed Mycroft, whose lips still tasted of the dinner that the two had shared the night before.

Lestrade cried openly now, his tears springing from a well somewhere deep inside himself that he hadn't known existed. His sorrow seemed to tear at his heart- his stomach knotted around the memory of his husband, protecting him even when Greg could not.

As Mycroft's lovely vessel was zipped into a disgraceful, undeserving bag, Gregory Lestrade Holmes felt the strangest peace even as tears sprang from his eyes.

The jacket that Greg had covered Mycroft with was returned him, and was coated in Mycroft's scent.

Gregory smiled, even through the tears.

He would never truly be alone.

_**Ave Maria. **_

John sat by the bed of what once contained the soul of his husband, William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

The battle had been long and hard, but John had assured Sherlock that he wouldn't let him go until Sherlock was ready.

This morning, at approximately 6:45 on their anniversary, Sherlock was ready.


End file.
